I am wicked. I pull the edge of my burqa further over my face, wincing at the movement. The pain is just. I deserved every blow I received. Only through punishment will I learn to be a good wife. My hands tremble as I stir the falafel. Tonight I will not burn the evening meal. Tonight I will not serve it late.

My husband Qaseem enters the kitchen suddenly. He hardly looks at me. “We have new foreign neighbors coming for dinner. It will be good to learn of America.” Qaseem values education, knowledge.

I nod. I will serve the food and stay quiet. Excitement tingles in my heart. I have never met an American. Worry mixes with the anticipation. I want to run after my husband like a child, to ask questions, receive assurances. Instead, I focus on frying the falafel. Qaseem will tell me all I need to know.

When our guests arrive I hesitate, not sure what to expect. I’m surprised to see the western woman dressed in the traditional modest hijab. We welcome them in, then I hurry to bring out the food, filling the low table with dishes.

The woman, Sarah, giggles as she tries to get comfortable on the floor cushions. I watch her from the slit in my head covering, gaining courage to whisper some simple tips in my broken English. The men discuss the husband James’ new job as an English teacher.

After the meal, I gather the dirty dishes. I am surprised to find Sarah following me into the kitchen. She ignores my protests and plunges her pale hands into the sudsy dish water.

We chat, growing comfortable with one another. But as I reach for a dish, my burqa catches on the cupboard and jerks crooked. I yank it back in place, holding my breath, wondering if Sarah saw the purple welt.

She had. Her eyes cloud with concern. “Are you all right, Mysha?”

I turn away. “Yes, I fine. I walk into door.” I give a laugh. “I clumsy.”

She isn’t deceived. Her hands reach for my shoulders. “Mysha.” That’s all she says, but my young heart breaks with loneliness.

“Sarah,” I whisper. “I do nothing right. I not good wife.”

“Oh, honey.” Her warmth fills me. “You try to follow all Allah’s rules, all your husband’s rules, but you can’t. Everyday you do wrong.”

For a moment I feel fear, wondering if my husband sent her to scold me. I manage a weak nod.

“You are human, Mysha. You can’t be perfect.”

I look at her. “What I do then?”

“Ah,” she smiles. “You see, God knows we are bad and loves us anyway. He sent His son, Jesus, to take our punishment for us. He offers forgiveness, and if we ask, He’ll come live in our hearts and help us to be good.”

I consider this, a part of me longing to let go of my constant struggle, longing to be free of degrading thoughts. “Qaseem enjoy learn. Tell him.” He will know what to think.

Sarah hesitates, obviously fearing the danger of talking of religions other than Islam. I reassure her; Qaseem will accept it simply as education of another culture.

We rejoin the men and Sarah speaks politely to my husband. “I have mentioned our religion to Mysha and she believed you would value hearing about it, enlarging your knowledge.”

Qaseem perks up, and he and James engage in a lively discussion. I lie back and soak in the words.

When our guests leave, I look at Qaseem. “Will you allow them to come teach us more?” I wait for his permission to think on these new ideas.

He shrugs. “Perhaps.”

Weeks pass. I dare not bring up the subject, but I wonder if this God brings as much freedom as the foreigners indicated. My beatings intensify, and doubt about the justness of them creeps in.

I struggle with guilt for my unsubmissive thoughts. Yet I long for love, acceptance. Sarah is right next door, filled with answers. I remember something she whispered to me, as they left that night. “God loves you, Mysha. He created you for Himself. Only you can decide whether to answer His call.”

When Qaseem leaves for work one day, I pick up the telephone. My knees shake beneath my long abaya as I ask for Sarah.

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I'm especially impressed with your dialog - not sure I'd even know how to start doing effective "broken English."
Perfect for the topic, and you did an amazing job immersing us in the culture, and Mysha's mind.

I'm breathless with admiration for such powerful storytelling, and heartbroken for Mysha, all at once! There are so many like her...It felt as though every single word here was crafted with Abba's love...Thank you for allowing Him to use your awesome writing gift to stir me to prayer!

I can't think of a situation that would need boldness more than this one. I was so caught up in the story, it just made me angry that the poor woman was being so mistreated! Great writing on a topic that's truly relevant today.

A very good story and one that is true for many women in the 10/40 window of the world. Her choice at the end is truly a bold one. If she became a Christian convert, in many parts of the world that act would cause her to be either cast out of her family or killed. Good telling of this dilemma.

I think you broke my heart. This situation is awful. You are a very good writer and depicted the scenes and characters with much finesse! Great job. Excellent writing--now I have to find a dictionary and look up a few things:) God Blesses your writing!

This is so inspiring. So well done, capturing the culture, pain and yearning of the heart that Mysha was trapped in. Have you ever read that book "I Dared to Call Him Father" by Bilquis Sheikh? This story reminds me of the oppression Christian women often have to endure in such a culture.

WOW! I think that sums up this brilliant piece. It takes courage, boldness and tons more to do what Mysha did. Very vivid with the descriptions, like Sarah helping with the dishes and the dialouge between the husband/wife. This was so real! Excellent writing, Amy!